


That Time When...

by unadulteratedstorycollector



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Drinking, Established Relationship, M/M, Quidditch Player Harry Potter, some rubbing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-18
Updated: 2018-01-18
Packaged: 2019-03-06 10:41:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13409535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unadulteratedstorycollector/pseuds/unadulteratedstorycollector
Summary: Draco and Harry work ridiculous hours and never get to see each other properly. Tonight they do.





	That Time When...

**Author's Note:**

> This is pure fluff, because that’s what I write. Sorry.
> 
> Also, un-betad. Sorry for that too.

Draco rubs at his eyes, leaning back in his chair and stretching his legs out. A small glass ball sits on the table in front of him, smoke leaking slowly from it. He’s been working on it all day, and the fucking thing is still leaking. Maybe he should have just left it. Maybe rememberalls are as good as they’re ever going to be. He reaches over and picks up the glass of water he keep on his desk for when he’s working. He sips it, sighing into the glass and glancing at the clock on the wall. Harry is still at practice, and it’s nearly half past ten. Definitely time for a drink. 

He pushes his chair back, the soft scrape of wood on wood sending shivers up his spine, and wanders through their house towards the kitchen. They probably have a bottle of wine there somewhere… but if he opens a bottle he’ll drink the whole thing to himself. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, but he really can’t afford to have a hangover tomorrow. And Harry won’t drink during training season. Not wine anyway.

Nope, he can’t open a bottle of wine. He stops in front of the corner where they keep the bottles of alcohol left over from various parties. A bottle of vodka that Seamus definitely brought. Creme de menth that was probably Pansy. Some sort of elf made bourbon that Blaise had sniffed at but insisted on drinking. Scotch, gin, peach schnapps, sambuca (he can’t even remember where that came from), whiskey, vermouth… ooh. Draco starts turning through the bottles in earnest. Yes! A small bottle of bitters sits at the back, tucked behind the stickiest bottle of rum he’s ever felt. 

He manages to find a glass after clambering onto a chair to look at the back of the cupboard. It’s dusty and tacky and he sighs, washing it in warm, soapy water. They clearly haven’t had a party in a very long time… too long. When was the last time they’d actually seen their friends. Weekly dinner at The Burrow did not count as seeing their friends, regardless of how many of their friends showed up. They’re both just ridiculously busy. And honestly, Draco can’t see it getting any better. Not unless they put the effort in.

He mixes his drink slowly, watching as the liquids twirl together, the slow throbbing at the base of his back reminding him that he really needs to look after his posture. He used to have beautiful posture. He picks through the oranges in the fruit bowl, because of course they have a plethora of oranges, until he finds one with a nice rind. Taking a very sharp knife from the knife block, he shaves a bit off, dropping it into the glass. Fantastic. He looks at the clock again. He’s not hungry, he’s never hungry. And he has no idea when Harry will be back. 

With a nod to himself, he heads for the stairs, Manhattan in hand, slowly peeling his clothes off and leaving them on the floor. He’ll pick them up later. Or tomorrow. It doesn’t matter. He pushes open their bedroom door in just his pants, and wanders over to their bed. It’s huge, decadent, covered in a thick, royal blue duvet. It had taken them months to find the perfect bed, with its elegantly carved wooden headboard. He takes a sip of his drink, letting it slip warm and sweet down his throat and settle in his stomach. He feels his muscles loosen and places his glass on the bedside table before flopping onto the bed. He sinks slowly into it, thanking himself for convincing Harry to get the goose down duvet. It feels cool against his skin and he wiggles out of his pants, revelling in the way his skin prickles and his body seems to almost spread as it relaxes.

He wriggles, managing to find his way underneath the duvet, shuffling the pillows so they’re cushioning his back. He’s just settling into the padding, sipping at his drink when he hears the front door click open and Harry call his name. It sounds soft, important, the way Harry says it. Like you have to be special to call his name. Like it can only be said properly by someone who has saved the world. Heavy footsteps clump through the house and Draco waits, placing his glass on the side.

Eventually their bedroom door opens, and Harry appears, a vision in his Quidditch leathers. His boots are off, his feet pale and boney against the floor, his trousers tight on his thighs. Draco’s cock starts to swell as he stares at his boyfriend, drinks in the sight of him. His shoulders are broad, broader in his training jacket, his chest defined and the leather stretched over his pecs, his hair wild from flying through the wind, and cheeks flushed as he grins at Draco sitting in bed.

“What are you doing up here?” Harry asks, slowly unbuttoning his clothes and letting them drop to the floor. Draco shrugs, watching as Harry reveals creamy skin sprinkled with dark hair, nipples small and brown, muscles defined from his fitness regime. Thick fingers dip beneath the waistband and he peels his trousers off, stalking closer. “You know, you’re never awake when I get home recently.”

“The showcase is next week, and you know I work better in the mornings…” He’s upset about it. Upset that he doesn’t get to spend more time curled up in bed with Harry. But Harry wakes late and arrives home late and he’s pretty useless any time after ten. Harry nods solemnly as he clambers onto the bed, his eyes fixed on Draco’s, his tongue flicking out to lick at his bottom lip. Draco resists the urge to rub at himself, his limbs too heavy from exhaustion to do anything useful anyway.

“I’ve missed you,” Harry whispers as he comes to straddle Draco.

“I’ve missed you too,” Draco breathes back and Harry smiles, a glowing smile that makes him look younger, like when they first got together after the struggle of coming to terms with what they’d done in the past. Draco forces his arms up, cupping Harry’s jaw, lacing his fingertips in the soft hairs at the base of his head, and gently brings their lips together.

Harry responds, lips insistent as they move against Draco’s. Strong hands run down Draco’s side and together they move, their lips never parting as Harry climbs under the duvet and Draco slides down. Harry is so solid, so hot, against his side and he turns so he can press more of himself against his boyfriend. He smiles at the thrill those words always give him, tangling his fingers in Harry’s hair and deepening their kiss.

“You’re naked,” Harry remarks against his lips. A chuckle escapes from the back of his throat and he nods.

“I am.. you’re not.” He keeps his eyes closed, he couldn’t open them if he tried, feeling as Harry pulls away to shuck his pants, and then they’re pressed together, scorching skin to scorching skin. They rock, hips aligned instantly after years of practice, cocks hardening as they slide together. Draco tries to focus on it, on the way Harry’s hands caress him with reverence, on the spark that flickers in his solar plexus. But his head feels heavy, his mind swimming as he starts to slip into sleep, the heat and comfort of having Harry with him soothing. He moves a hand lower, stroking the curve of Harry’s arse. It really is a perfect arse. 

“Mmm, this s’nice,” Harry mumbles and somewhere in Draco’s brain he registers that Harry is just as tired, just as exhausted, as he is. Resting his forehead against Harry’s, Draco nuzzles at Harry’s nose. He can feel Harry’s breath on his lips, can feel the way his chest is slowing and he smiles.

“I love you.” He doesn’t know if Harry can hear him, doesn’t know if he’s actually said anything. His lips are heavy and his throat dry. He pushes closer, his arms wrapped around Harry, Harry’s arms tangled around him.

He thinks he hears a whispered “I love you too” as he falls, gracefully and completely naked, to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Kudos and comments are seen, read, and loved!


End file.
